


rekindle

by nightcalling



Category: Now You See Me (Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, M/M, Mythology References, minor appearances from other characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27966560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcalling/pseuds/nightcalling
Summary: Rhodes is an unknown variable in his system of chaos. Daniel wants to draw out that fire, extinguish it, then relight the dying embers with the sparks from his own torch.
Relationships: J. Daniel Atlas/Dylan Rhodes
Comments: 8
Kudos: 32





	rekindle

**Author's Note:**

> I rewatched NYSM2 in late November and have been itching with the need to write something for these two because I’d forgotten how much I loved them. I only got around to doing it now because life has been #crazy, but better late than never! I hope whoever’s still lurking around in this fandom will enjoy this. 
> 
> To my friends and followers, if you find this to be completely out of left field… well, it is.

Daniel doesn’t believe in mythology. Gods and demigods, Titans and superhumans—they’re fantasies meant to feed those with no imagination of their own. A person should make his own way in the world, use his wits to tell his own stories. That’s what they’re placed on this Earth to do: to leave behind a legacy and become immortalized in the heavens. People centuries down the line will look in the history books and remember that there once lived a man who could conjure up tricks without having been born special, could claim the hearts of millions without ever meeting any of them face-to-face.

Growing up, he’d thought these thoughts freely and had never felt the need to hide them. His father disagreed, as he did with everything Daniel said.

 _Careful, son_ , his father would always reprimand after one of their fights. _You are too reckless and you do not know your place_.

He’d proceed to situate Daniel in the middle of the study and order him to put his hands out, palms facing the ceiling, hard maple meter stick hovering mere millimeters above them.

 _The sons of Iapetus_ , his father would prompt with a tap. _Who were they?_

Daniel, in mock-piety, would recite the following: _Sly Prometheus, who lived in eternal torment for stealing what didn’t belong to him. Gullible Epimetheus, who welcomed Pandora’s secrets and unleashed countless travesties upon the world. Prideful Menoetius, who rebelled violently against Zeus and was rewarded with a bolt of lightning for his hubris._

After that, his father would force Daniel to look him in the eyes with a deliberate smack on the hands.

 _And the fourth?_ he’d demand. Another smack on the hands.

 _Atlas_ , Daniel would finally reply. _Strong Atlas, who was condemned to an eternity of holding up the celestial spheres._

 _That’s right_ , his father would say. _We must be strong but not overbearing, powerful but not reckless. That is how a true leader behaves._

It’s the same old lesson every time. Slyness, Daniel has that in abundance. Secrets, plenty of those. A lot of pride, too, a lot more than his father deems necessary.

But what his father doesn’t know is that Daniel is different from those Titans of old. He’s not going to fall prey to the same pitiful ends because he’s even more cunning, ruthless, and larger-than-life than all of the gods put together. He’s going to prove just how much he deserves a seat high above, and he’s going to do it with his smarts alone.

Being smart, after all, is the purest form of power. Atlas’s vice was that his endurance relied on his muscles. Daniel is all brains and no brawn, and that’s more than sufficient. Carefully concocted tricks, disguised as flare and rashness with the help of a little razzle-dazzle, are all he’s going to need to make the world his stage.

Daniel doesn’t believe in mythology, but he believes in becoming a legend. What are gods for if not to be struck down? That’s why when he receives the card, he immediately knows: The Eye is his ticket to immortality, and he’s already halfway there. All he has to do is be the smartest guy in the room.

That’s what he says to Agent Rhodes, anyway, while the man is sneering up at him from the table of the interrogation room. He has the same look in his eyes as Daniel’s father, back when Daniel would beat him at any game he threw at him, whether it was chess or blackjack or some new variation of poker. Daniel is by no means a betting man—leaving anything up to chance is reckless and dangerous and _stupid_ —but if he does need to enter a bet, it’ll never be one that he hasn’t rigged beforehand. As long as he knows the predefined variables in a problem space, all he needs to make everybody play by his rules is to introduce systematic chaos.

That’s what he’s doing now, making Rhodes play by his rules. Daniel jumps back as Rhodes leaps, and the moment the chains on the cuffs tighten around his wrists, Rhodes directs this _glare_ at him. It should be inconsequential. A proof of triumph, even. Much like his father, a man who doesn’t know when he’s beaten is nothing more than a fool.

But this is—this is different. Rhodes isn’t a fool, not by a long shot, but he plays the part well. He hides the truth behind those dark irises, behind those shouts and behind that pathetically dramatic body language. Behind all of the window dressing, there’s something there, burning deep inside of Rhodes, but Daniel doesn’t know what, exactly, can’t put a name to it. Rhodes is an unknown variable in his system of chaos. Daniel wants to draw out that fire, extinguish it, then relight the dying embers with the sparks from his own torch.

 _Maybe Prometheus gave fire to humankind so that Rhodes could ignite the path to uncharted land_.

He shakes off that thought as he exits the building with the other Horsemen, refusing to entertain it further. He doesn’t believe in mythology, least of all in someone who takes orders for a living.

The thing is, a puppet only knows as much as the maestro pulling its strings allows it to know. He hadn’t felt like a puppet when he’d been doing the Eye’s bidding. The Horsemen were his accomplices, his comrades in arms—a means to an end, so to speak. He feels like a puppet now as he stands in front of the carousel, limbs pulled tight and throat struggling to work out the words forming in his brain, slow and sticky like molasses.

“So,” he says, heart pounding, ears roaring, “when I said always be the smartest guy in the room…”

“We were in agreement,” says Rhodes. There’s that smirk again, shining brightly underneath the dark sky. Slyness, Rhodes has that in abundance. Secrets, plenty of those. A lot of pride, too, a lot more than Daniel had given him credit for.

He should be offended and indignant, scorned for being treated as a joke. He’d put on a show meant for the world but had the applause taken away by a single man. But when the carousel begins to spin and Rhodes beckons him forward, Daniel’s only thought is, _if Rhodes is the one who unleashes chaos upon the universe, then perhaps mythology has its merits after all._

So, he follows.

And he follows.

And he follows.

But every new trick has its expiration date, and Daniel has reached the end of his clock. It’s been days, weeks, months since their last show, and he’s itching. He’s a showman, a magician, a legend in the making. He’s not meant to sit in a dark room and wait to emerge into the light. Darkness is his friend only when he’s keen on making his entrance even grander, but his roots are in the sun. He’ll fly further than Icarus because his wings are not made of wax. They’re bulletproof, waterproof, fireproof. His limit is nonexistent.

It’s the Eye who reaches out to him first. They see him. They understand him. They tell him, _we know you belong in the light._

“Step into the light with us, Dylan,” he tries to persuade over the phone. “We don’t need to hide anymore.” He doesn’t know when _Rhodes_ became _Dylan_ , nor when he’d started thinking of the spotlight not only as his own, but as a shared space—the Horsemen’s, yes, but also—also—and it had happened naturally, as natural as the way his tongue now forms the _D_ and curls around the _L_.

“It’s not the right time,” Dylan says.

“Will it ever be the right time?”

A static crackle. “It’s not up to me.” Dylan almost sounds remorseful. Almost.

Almost isn’t good enough.

“That’s not good enough,” Daniel says, and hangs up. He looks down at the holographic message sent to him earlier that morning.

 _Stay the course_ , the message reminds him. _Great changes are in store. Trust that your unique talents will not go unrecognized. We know you belong in the light. Follow us and we’ll show you how to reclaim it._

Reclaim the spotlight. That’s all he ever wanted. It’s intoxicating, finally standing up here again before jumbo screens and a screaming audience. He’ll never grow tired of it. Not the hero worship, no, not the gleeful delight or the way everybody swoons from the barest lift of his finger. No, no, no. He’s talking about the way his palms sweat slightly from the knowledge that the boys in blue could bust through those doors at any second. He’s talking about the way his heart beats in anticipation of the thrill of the chase, the way he lands every single one of his lines and jokes like they’re the last words he’ll ever utter. That’s the crux of it all, isn’t it? Living life in the fast lane because slowing down is too boring and too mundane.

Except then, Lula is cut off, and he tries to take over and speak, but the words don’t come out. There’s no static, not even microphone feedback, there’s simply—nothing. He can’t hear his own voice, only the sirens whirring inside his head.

And then he realizes, those sirens aren’t just imaginary.

“Daniel—” and that’s Dylan’s voice, but it can’t be, Dylan never calls him _Daniel_ , only _Atlas_ , because what if people overhear? What if Dylan gets caught? What if— “—everyone, get off the stage _now_.”

The last thing Daniel sees before he escapes the stage is doors opening, bodies flooding in, Dylan disappearing in a swirl of suits and uniforms, swallowed whole like the sea swallows lives. Serves him right. This is what happens when you play it safe by lurking in the shadows.

That’s what Daniel’s first and immediate thought is, but as he’s jumping off the roof into the escape tube, his stream of consciousness drifts to, _Dylan remains in the darkness so the rest of them don’t have to_.

Ironic, considering that the moment he finishes that thought, he emerges from the escape tube to greet the night sky.

Walter—that’s the douchebag’s name, Daniel thinks. He’s not quite sure and he doesn’t care much if he’s wrong. What he does care about is Walter’s offer. It’s a chance to right the wrongs thrown against them, and maybe—maybe this is the Eye’s test, and the time has finally come for him to prove his worth. They don’t need anybody else. _He_ doesn’t need anybody else. He definitely doesn’t need—

“Actually, we’ll do it,” he says. Merritt, Jack, Lula, they look at him like he’s let out all of his proverbial doves prematurely. No matter. After all’s said and done, they’ll see he made the right call when none of them were willing to.

Reclaim the spotlight. Clear away the clouds, draw up the sun. Turn the mirrors of the world onto yourself, and the rest of the universe will have no choice but to gaze upon your reflection.

The funny thing about mirrors is, sometimes they reflect things that you weren’t expecting back at you. If it’s a two-way mirror, then depending on what side you’re standing on, you’re either the predator or the prey.

He never thought of himself as prey, even when he had to spend most of his days running. The feds think they’ve got Big Brother watching him, but he’s got the Eye on his side, and nothing is more omnipresent than an eye in the sky.

He’s not even that irritated that he’d been played. Daniel Atlas, duped by a manbaby dressed in a tacky white suit and trying so hard to play gangster. It should infuriate him, but fury doesn’t hold a candle to what he’s seeing in Dylan’s eyes.

“You really think I’m gonna walk away from you?” Dylan shouts, shoving him against the door. “Don’t ever question me again. Beat it!”

Daniel’s stomach lurches from the punch, and his back hurts from the handle digging into his back, but the only thing that aches is his heart. Why did Dylan come back? Why didn’t he stay in the darkness?

 _Tell me why you’re looking at me like that_ , Daniel wants to say. _Tell me why your mind is the only one I’ve yet to make bend to mine but is the one I want to conquer most of all._

He sees it then, the expression on his face etched into the sheen of the metal door that’s slammed shut before him. And as he’s staring, staring, staring at his own reflection, he figures it out.

He runs.

Slyness, Dylan has that in abundance. Secrets, plenty of those. A lot of pride, too, a lot more than Daniel had given him credit for. Perhaps all three of those things were what led Dylan to make the stupidest decision that Daniel has ever seen him make.

He’d caught a glimpse of the insignia on the safe before the truck pulled away. It’s clear as day who it belongs to, and what that means about the man trapped inside.

He was seven when he first learned that there were people who made a profession out of defying death. His mother had given him a book for his birthday: _The World’s Greatest Escapes_. In the middle of the book, right there at the centerfold, was the photo that had set him off on his odyssey. Underneath it, the caption read: _Renowned magician Lionel Shrike shares the stage with his son._

They had looked happy in that photo, and Daniel had found himself in a state of elation every time he revisited it, starry-eyed and heart full. It had kept him sane and strong, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t prone to bouts of weakness. Like a coward, he’d often found himself believing that life would’ve been better if he’d been born a Shrike rather than an Atlas.

A month later, Lionel Shrike failed to cheat death for the very first and last time in his life. As irrational as the sentiment is, Daniel still finds himself wondering if he might’ve been the cause. It was his fault for wishing for something that could’ve never been. He had made Lionel Shrike take on a burden one too many, and Shrike had paid the ultimate cost.

He’s not going to make the same mistake again.

“Fuck, shit, _fuck_ ,” Lula cries when they reach the edge of the docks. She twists her fingers into her hair and pulls on the strands, hard. “They threw him overboard, they—oh fuck, they—”

“That safe’s gotta weigh a ton, right?” That’s Jack. His voice breaks at the end. He was never very good at keeping his emotions in check. “We’ve gotta—There’s gotta be something around here we can use to—”

“Now, hold on, you two,” Merritt is saying, as if telling them to hold on will solve anything, “let’s not lose our cool here, let’s put our heads together and—wait, Daniel, what’re you—”

“What I should’ve done ages ago,” Daniel says, and he jumps into the murky water, down into the darkness.

Eighteen years. That’s how long he had spent believing that Lionel Shrike was the closest that a man could come to reaching the heavens. Throughout his career, Shrike had caught a bullet, had his limbs sawed off, had swallowed fire—he’d done it all, even if that fire had eventually been smothered.

But as Dylan lies there on the pavement, form-fitting clothes soaked to transparency and chest expanding to release a fountain of water from his lungs, Daniel finally understands: Shrike had saved the most mystical of his alchemy for this moment. He’d let the life fade from his eyes so it could be reborn in his son.

Greek fire: a concoction that ignites upon contact with water. It’s no wonder that historians have yet to correctly intuit its secret ingredients after so many centuries because they’ve been missing the crucial piece—Dylan’s tenacity.

Daniel reaches out and touches. He can’t not touch, not when Dylan is here and alive, still breathing, still burning, disrupting the natural order of elements. He lays a hand on Dylan’s chest, feels it go up and down, feeding the last of his own energy to him—whatever Dylan needs.

 _You’re okay._ He sees the truth of his words in front of him, but it’s not real until he can hear it.

So, he says it, splices it into the middle of Lula and Jack and Merritt’s overlapping voices: “You’re okay.”

Dylan moves his head, locks his eyes with Daniel’s, and that’s when Daniel realizes that something on his face must’ve suggested he’d meant it as a question.

Before Daniel can clarify, Dylan—always one step ahead—gives him an answer: _Thank you._

Daniel feels the weight of Dylan’s words settling onto his heart, into his bones. He’d felt it only once before, back when he’d stood before the swirling lights of the carousel, and he’s smart enough to know what the quickened pulse inside his veins means.

 _I know you belong in the light,_ Daniel wants to tell him, _and I will follow you if it means I can help you reclaim it._

But the words, they don’t come. They’re stuck in his throat, his brain still slow like molasses. This never happens to him. He could always sell a crowd and play any audience like a fiddle, and yet here is this man who has rendered him speechless for the second time in his life.

He gets the fascination with mythology now, gets the obsession with the fantastical. Dylan Shrike is living proof that it’s possible to achieve the most difficult task of them all: he’s surpassed his father.

Suddenly, there’s a click, like a lock that’s perfectly picked, an impenetrable safe being cracked. The doubt in his mind clears, and the clamp on his tongue releases.

“There’s a quote,” Daniel says carefully. “It’s actually by the magician that made me wanna do this in the first place. It’s, uh...”

Dylan looks up at him from the other end of the table, enough to give him pause. The rest of them look at him too, the Horsemen and Li and Bu Bu, and it feels as though the Eye itself might be scrutinizing him at this very moment. But he can’t stop here, not when they’ve come so far. A magician never reveals his tricks, always plays things close to the chest, but the time has come for the prestige, and the least he owes Dylan is the truth.

_Time to step into the light._

So, here it goes: “ _A magician’s greatest power lies forever shrouded in his empty fist—_ ”

“ _—and the very idea that he can convince the world that he is, in fact, carrying with him a secret_ ,” Dylan finishes. There’s simply no way that he doesn’t understand Daniel’s intentions because Dylan is smart, very smart, but Daniel can’t help the perfectionist in him, he’s got to be sure.

“That’s Lionel Shrike,” he states.

Dylan stares at him, unwavering. “Right,” he answers.

It’s more than enough. Daniel grins.

They’ve got about an hour to go before their big takedown of the night, but this is the first time that Daniel has felt this nervous before a performance. Absorbing cacophony has always relieved the tension, so he’s here in the back alley of the magic shop, trying to sharpen his focus by listening to the frequencies of the bustling city. It seems contradictory, he knows, but it’s never failed him, so why fix what’s not broken?

“How long have you known?” Dylan’s voice comes through the loudest, the only weapon that can breach his impenetrable shield. Daniel turns when Dylan’s shoulder touches his, and he opens his eyes to drink in the neon lights cast upon Dylan’s skin.

“You’re smart,” Daniel says. “I’m sure you’ve figured out the answer to that.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Dylan says, laughing. He sinks his hands into his pockets, looks down at the shimmering asphalt, then glances back up with a sheepish expression. It’s the same one he’d had in the photo as a child.

Jealousy swells inside Daniel’s chest, pinching at his flesh. It’s no longer because he begrudges the boy for growing up under Lionel Shrike’s tutelage, but because Shrike was lucky enough to know what Dylan was like before he became a man.

“I’m nice when I want to be,” Daniel says, shrugging. “Since you’re the son of my hero, I thought I’d make an exception.”

“Hero, huh?”

“That’s the only time I’m saying it.”

Dylan lets out another chuckle before sobering. “I didn’t think people still cared about him.”

“People care. They just forget to say it sometimes.”

“Are you saying that you care?”

Daniel looks into Dylan’s eyes to fish out the real question behind those words, and then deeper beyond that until he sees the flame burning stubbornly inside of him, ethereal and everlasting.

“I jumped,” Daniel explains. It’s simple from there: he leans in and kisses Dylan. He stays there, long enough for it to be properly perceived as a conscious action instead of an accidental one, then pulls back. He almost laughs at the sight that greets him: here’s Dylan Shrike, the man that has been one step ahead of him all this time, caught off guard by something as simple as a press of lips.

Then again, Dylan isn’t really a mythological hero. He’s just a man, as much made of mortal flesh and blood as any of them are.

“I,” Dylan says. He licks his lips. “What—What was—?”

“Eloquence at its best.”

“You… you… um.”

“I’m pretty sure there’s an English word for it. Four letters? One syllable. It’s an easy one, I’m shocked that you don’t know. Maybe you’re not as smart as you think.” Daniel tries his best to remain serious, but he has a feeling that the dopey grin on Dylan’s face mirrors his own.

Dylan’s grin grows wider. “You’re not gonna stop being a pain in the ass, are you?”

“Nope. Where’s the fun in that?” Daniel places his hands over Dylan’s chest and kisses him again.

Dylan Rhodes was an unknown variable in his system of chaos. Daniel wasn’t sure where he fit into the grand scheme of things, what role he was designed to play, because a puzzle is never supposed to come with an extra piece.

Dylan Shrike, on the other hand—this, he knows. Turns out, a puzzle is never supposed to come with a missing piece either, and all he needed to do to solve the riddle was to change his perspective. The spotlight is only as warm as the people he shares it with.

_Step into the light with us. We don’t need to hide anymore._

The words are no longer stuck in his throat. Daniel turns to the darkened entrance of the airplane.

“He is our friend and he is our leader,” he announces over the applause. “Dylan Shrike!”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for sticking around ‘til the end! I hope the third film gets made eventually because I, for one, need to see Dylan and Daniel become the power couple that the ending of the second movie clearly hinted at.


End file.
